


Not Place, but People

by Bracketyjack



Series: The Peaceful Vorkosiverse [3]
Category: BUJOLD Lois McMaster - Works, Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-25
Updated: 2011-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:10:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bracketyjack/pseuds/Bracketyjack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which 'The haut Pel's Grace to the Fallen' is premiered in the Celestial Garden. By quaddies. Guess who's sharing the imperial box?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Place, but People

**Author's Note:**

> The story is set eighteen months after the end of 'Forward Momentum', and ten months after 'The Christening Tour', which makes it the late spring of 2807.

I

Helen Vorthys arranged herself carefully on the strange couch and felt gravity hold her comfortingly in place. Beside her Georg wriggled before turning to sketch a bow at Vanos Kariam, propped on one elbow on his own couch and grinning like a loon beneath his awful green-and-orange face-paint.

“You see? I said it could be done!”

“You did, Vanos, and I owe you a case of maple mead.”

Helen winced; even a sip of that stuff could do lasting damage and in recent months a surprising number of senior ghem visiting the Historiographical Institute she headed had been absurdly keen to try quaffing it by the glassful, despite the consistent results.

“You transferred the Gaussian energy through a hypertwist? Or did you use those McCracken couplers and polarising circuits that—” Georg broke off at Helen’s warning growl and Vanos grinned even more.

“Your penalty is to wait until I show you tomorrow. For now dancing is more important than gravitic engineering. Are you comfortable, Helen?”

“Yes, thank you, Vanos dear. You’ve done wonders.” And he had, Helen thought, looking at the space Vanos had designed and realised within the vast force-dome of the perfectly extraordinary— _or do I mean extraordinarily perfect?_ —Celestial Garden. It resembled images she’d seen of the Minchenko Auditorium on Graf Station, the home of Nicol’s ballet troupe, but on a far grander scale, and Vanos’s engineering triumph was that, despite the _space’s_ zero-g, the boxes lining the interior of the sphere like luxury egg-cartons each had radial gravity, enabling even patrons who to her eyes ought to have been hanging from the ceiling to relax _back_ into their couches.

The imperial box she found herself lying in curved around a third of the lower sphere. Half its frontage had a force-shield blocking all vision from outside, allowing several Planetary Consorts and Empress the haut Rian Degtiar to stretch out in their obligatory privacy. From her own place Helen could see under the shield, which meant so could the ghem in the imperial party. Vanos was clearly aware of it, and even the planetary governors gathered at the far end of the box were making sure their gaze never turned that way. In the other direction, bracketing Emperor the haut Fletchir Giaja, General Benin in the Imperial Array and Ekaterin, her Order of Virtue gleaming on her breast, were listening intently to Giaja. Miles was beyond Ekaterin, by the very edge of the force-shield, deep in conversation with Pel, who had in the eveolving interface between the imperia become a most unnerving ally of Lady Alys. The urchin look on Pel’s face at whatever scurrilous tale Miles must be spinning was a sign of pure pleasure. How _did_ the little man do it?

But then this whole evening, for all the Celestial Garden was hosting it at unimaginable expense, was another of Miles’s wildly sprouted felicities. His quaddie friend Nicol had for incidental if cosmically just reasons been drawn with her partner, Bel Thorne (tonight playing VIP host to visiting Quaddie dignitaries in a box of its own), into attending the bloodless invasion of Jackson’s Whole with which the imperia had clinched their great alliance. Miles had made sure, as frame-images of Jacksonian barons being steered about their own palaces by brightly coloured bubbles were broadcast to more than 800 _billion_ watchers, both that Nicol had her dulcimer to hand and that provision existed to transmit her mind-ravishing impromptu as live soundtrack. Nicol responded because, as Miles well knew having rescued her himself, she understood to her bones the evil of Jackson’s Whole, and when Pel’s contribution to Invasion Day appeared, force-bubbles representing Miles and others who had suffered on Jackson’s Whole descending to taunt newly captive barons, Nicol’s music had exploded as joyous passion of clean revenge swept through her. After that one thing led to another, as they tended to around Miles, and less than a week later Helen (quite drunk on raw history) had learned from Pel herself of his commission to someone Nicol knew for a quaddie ballet to be called _The haut Pel’s Grace to the Fallen_ —a ballet that premiered tonight, in the heart of the Celestial Garden.

She and Georg were here largely because Pel’s liking for Vanos had led her formally to invite his Barrayaran counterpart. The historical report on three generations of Vorkosigans she had with Gregor’s approval undertaken for the Star Crèche had put her in good Cetagandan odour, making her welcome feel personal as well as courteous, but she was struggling to understand what she was really doing amid so much magnificence. She had had a lurking sense it might be because Miles wanted some history recording on-scene by a Barrayaran professional, an intuition borne out when he had discreetly taken her to hear him deliver a short, savagely pointed, and exquisitely polite lecture— _earwigging, really_ —about what he had done at Dagoola IV, and exactly why it had worked so spectacularly well, to a small group of very high and by the end of things red-faced haut. But the nagging sense remained, and she also worried about the young people on her other side, Lord Mark fidgeting experiments in the gravity field, and Lady Kareen very still, gorgeous in a dress Helen recognised as (like her own) a creation of Estelle’s. The girl had done astonishingly well as the newest Lady Vorkosigan, coping wonderfully with the strange pressure of the role she found herself playing, but Helen could see how white her fingers were on the grips on her couch.

“Kareen, dear,” she said across Lord Mark’s saturnine glance, “you realise this gravity Vanos has contrived will preserve our modesties as well as our stomachs?” She smiled warmly at the girl. “Not like that ceremony on Aralyar where we had to have weighted skirts. Cetagandans do attend to detail, don’t they?”

Kareen smiled wanly, appreciating support but clearly feeling out of her depth. She had been married nearly a year, and having been raised in the Koudelka household took most private imperial occasions in her stride, but extending imperial intimacy to the haut was overwhelming her. Helen sympathised, finding she had to invest a great deal of energy and draw on all her experience to keep her own courage up and demeanour unruffled. She was looking forward to the ballet enormously, and had been for months, but being a personal _and_ official guest of the Celestial Garden produced a scale and modes of welcome to daunt anyone. Half the time there had been ceremonial events marked by ghem face-paint and rigid haut immobility, the Barrayarans having little to do but stand and nod to haut delegations and ghem cohorts paraded before them, inwardly proffering heartfelt thanks to Lady Alys for supplying their wardrobes. The other half—and this was the real surprise—had been quite informal private time with Giaja, his haut Empress and Handmaiden Rian Degtiar, and rotating Planetary Consorts, Governors and Satraps. The most senior Barrayarans, including her and Georg, had to her complete astonishment also been privately introduced by Giaja to a boy of about ten, haut Riahir, who was remarkably well-informed about them all and though never described as such was plainly his son by Rian, and— _oh my!_ —presumably his heir, destined for the Celestial Throne. The boy had then brought her to a state of complete shock by asking a _very_ good question about Barrayaran attitudes to the failure of ghem-policies during the Occupation, in which she had with bemusement discerned not only solid history but the refractions of that rather propagandistic holovid series about Lord Vortalon. The Library of the Celestial Garden must, she decided, be a formidable thing, and wondered how she might secure access.

Inwardly digesting her crogglement, Helen could see the political value in these highest haut getting to know Miles, Ekaterin, and even her Georg, as Lord Auditor with oversight of Barrayar’s New Technologies Commission. But she, Lord Mark, and Kareen ought to have been superfluous, able to surf on small talk and personal honesty within the limits of security; and it had _not_ been like that at all. The intense curiosity all Cetagandans focused on Miles and Ekaterin was only to be expected after their primary roles, political and aesthetic, in forging the Alliance, and she was unsurprised, if gratified, by the interest haut women and some men had shown in her report on the Vorkosigans. But why Lord Mark should so fascinate the haut, or that fascination spill over to include Kareen, Helen wasn’t at all sure, and she didn’t much like her suspicions; it was all too reminiscent of rural Barrayaran attitudes to adult mutancy, an unwilling, half-civil restraint of fascinated loathing. Always less graceful than Miles, despite far greater strength and agility than his bulk suggested, Lord Mark had endured scrutiny and answered questions civilly, but could not prevent a desire to hunch from showing, and Kareen’s smile had become steadily more brittle though her politeness never wavered. Miles and Ekaterin had done all they could, but she suspected their greater understanding of what was amiss constrained public intervention, and the Barrayarans had had little time to themselves.

Considering Kareen, she found herself wishing Lord Ivan was here with his charming, easy-spoken, and increasingly insistent would-be ghem-fiancées, blonde Lady Arvin and amber-brunette Lady Benello. He could have cheered Kareen up, and the ghem-women (themselves the objects of _riveted_ Barrayaran scrutiny when a grim-faced Lord Ivan introduced them) had seemed both wise for their age and determined to like Barrayarans, especially those connected to Lord Ivan. But Deputy Ambassador Colonel Lord Vorpatril was necessarily on duty at the Barrayaran embassy with his new boss, hosting the Vorbarr Sultana newsies and aesthetics talking-heads who were by gracious imperial permission being permitted to observe a local framecast of the premiere. _And less than happy about it himself. Oh well._ The auditorium was nearly full, and either Cetagandan refinement or superior acoustics kept background noise to a faint murmur. Turning to lend his own support to Kareen with an expression of wonder at the performance space, Georg found he had attracted Giaja’s and Benin’s attentions and hastily added proper vocatives.

“Amazing space, isn’t it? Ah, Celestial Lord, General. I’m still trying to work out how General Kariam juggled the gravity.”

“Indeed, Lord Auditor.” Giaja’s tremendous baritone was as supple as always. “I find it pleasing and warmly anticipate the performance.” His attention rested on Kareen and Lord Mark. “I trust it will be rewarding for you also, Lady Kareen. I fear we haut have tired you with curiosity.”

Kareen might have frazzled nerves and a painful self-consciousness as Lady Vorkosigan, but she was Koudelka to the marrow. “I confess, Celestial Lord, I have found haut scrutiny strange. May I ask what makes you so curious?”

“Do you not know?” Giaja’s voice was gentle. “Vorkosigans are a great puzzle to us.”

“I am but very newly one of those, Celestial Lord.”

Giaja nodded. “Your birthname of Koudelka is known also, of course, but in more limited circles. I would wish you to convey to your parents my greetings and respect, for I admire what I have read of them.” Kareen nodded, clearly taken aback to find Giaja talking of her redoubtable Ma and Da. “But Vorkosigans, as you know, are something else.” A gesture encompassed Kareen and Lord Mark before expanding to allude to Ekaterin and Miles, still engrossed with Pel. “And while we have come to know Lord Auditor and Lady Vorkosigan, with my Cousin’s Viceroy and Vicereine of Sergyar, we have not before had the pleasure and instruction of _your_ company.”

Lord Mark looked more saturnine than ever. “You flatter us, Celestial Lord. We are both but grafts on that tree.”

“Flatter? Not so, Lord Mark.” Giaja suddenly smiled easily. “Though playing with court civility, I concede.” The smile faded. “And no graft, but a true scion. You once did Us a very good turn, Lord Mark, however unwittingly, and suffered great harm from mutual enemies. You are also, by any analysis, an inspiration to your brother, who has somehow acquired the habit of doing Us not simply good but vital turns.”

Mark looked equally taken aback and relieved, as Kareen had been, by some plainer, if abruptly imperial, speaking—though not to her very much plainer. _What_ good turn had _Mark_ done Cetaganda? And when? Her historical antennae quivered, but Giaja hadn’t finished providing Celestial Things to Think About.

“Your genefather has told you, I believe, that We are grateful, but cannot be so officially.” Mark nodded, as, interestingly, did Kareen. “Emperors, alas, grow used to that condition. Others are made uneasy. And you come to us now with your wife”—he smiled again, more personally at Kareen—“who joins the Vicereine and Lady Vorkosigan in your constellation; no mean company. We simply watch you grow, Lady.”

 _Fascinating._ And Giaja had eased Kareen, who smiled back at him much less guardedly. “You must find it very dull, Celestial Lord. There’s never been anyone else like Tante Cordelia, and Ekaterin’s as deep as the world. They just _do_ things, as if whatever makes it obviously impossible isn’t there, and then it isn’t.” She blushed. “I’m sorry, of course you must be used to that.”

Giaja laughed, looking charmed and … rueful? “On the contrary, Lady, I know exactly what you mean. So would Cousin Gregor, I assure you. My own experience has been more with Lord Vorkosigan doing that on a demigalactic scale than his mother on a Barrayaran one, but I am sure the feeling is similar. And your observation was acute—it is in exercising will that each most exceeds their peers. But Lady Vorkosigan’s inspired understanding of aesthetics is a different acuity, and whatever _your_ gifts prove may surely be different again. You should not fret, Lady, nor fear our boredom. Ah, the performance is to begin.”

Lights began to dim and the sussuration of voices faded into silence. Relaxing back onto her couch with eager anticipation, Helen filed the whole conversation away for dissection at leisure. She felt relieved for Kareen, intrigued about Lord Mark, and professionally fascinated (as well as deeply amused) to learn that Giaja found himself just as astounded by Miles as everyone else. She was also, she realised, surprised, even after his repeated civility to all the Barrayarans, by the haut Emperor’s private care for Kareen; he had been charming beyond need, as Gregor would have been but as she had not expected from a haut. Or perhaps any Cetagandan. _Hmmm_. That would require some uncomfortable thought. Giaja’s attitude to Miles and Ekaterin was also much warmer and more relaxed that she had expected, given the way she had seen them interact at the summit and invasion. Had they met since? Or, more probably, conversed by frame, as she knew Gregor did with his Cousin? But glowing words were appearing in the space above her, and everything else was going to have to wait.

 

II

YOUR IMPERIAL MAJESTIES,

HONOURED HAUT AND HONOURABLE GHEM,

ESTEEMED PATRONS AND GUESTS.

 

Miles wasn’t sure how it was being done, but huge letters carved from light hung in a band in the air, in Cetagandan, Barrayaran, and galactic scripts, initially facing the royal box before slowly rotating, as if on an invisible ribbon, for all to see. A slightly snarky thought that nothing so vulgar as an MC or a programme would do for the Celestial Garden was matched by simple pleasure in the elegance and efficiency of the proffered alternative.

 

THE QUADDIE NATION,

THE CITIZENS OF GRAF STATION,

AND WE OF THE MINCHENKO BALLET

THANK YOU FOR THE HONOUR YOU DO US TONIGHT.

WE ESPECIALLY THANK OUR PATRONS HERE,

HAUT PEL NAVARR, PLANETARY CONSORT OF ETA CETA,

AND LORD AUDITOR AND LADY VORKOSIGAN OF BARRAYAR,

TO WHOM BY GRACIOUS IMPERIAL PERMISSION

OUR PERFORMANCE IS DEDICATED.

 

Miles looked sideways at Fletchir to find the haut emperor giving him a ghostly grin echoed at his shoulder by Dag Benin. Miles rolled his eyes and noticed beneath the distracting display the orchestra preparing; Nicol could be seen adjusting her dulcimer with help from a male quaddie he thought was a double-violinist, but he virtuously returned attention to the words. If he’d got this right, Quaddie aesthetics (a revelation to Barrayarans who thought of the four-armed spacers as malformed mutants) was about to pay Fletchir— _and_ _haut Gars!_ —back far more satisfactorily than anything he could say. Besides, the dedications to Pel and Ekaterin were richly deserved; his own inclusion, if predictable, was a tiresome instance of protocol overcoming merit. Next to him Ekaterin whispered that he _had_ commissioned the principal piece, and he grinned.

 

WE PRESENT THIS EVENING THREE WORKS.

 

FIRST, AN EPIC NARRATIVE OF OUR PEOPLE,

BORN INTO GENETIC SLAVERY,

DELIVERING OURSELVES WITH LEGGED HELP TO FREEDOM,

GROWING INTO OUR SELFHOOD AND PLACE.

ITS TITLE IS  _FALLING FREE_ ,

ITS MUSIC AND CHOREOGRAPHY BY AMARANTH.

 

The composer’s single name, Miles knew, was an indication he had been among the first thousand quaddies created, before their escape from the bankrupt Terran corporation that wrought them; his epic was a founding document of Quaddie culture. Not for the first time since this balletic interlude had forcefully spun itself into being as a side-effect of Nicol’s astounding impromptu he wondered how Cetagandans would react to balletic quaddie portrayals of legged humans—‘downsiders’ in their parlance—which according to Bel tended to affectionate comedy.

 

SECOND, A PHYSICAL MEDITATION ON OUR SUBSTANCE,

 _PRIME DECAY_ ,

MUSIC AND CHOREOGRAPHY BY LLEWELLYN THREE.

 

The slight buzz confirmed his belief that the Quaddie concept of a physical meditation was excellently pitched for haut and ghem alike. His confidence that something remarkable was about to happen grew.

 

AFTER AN INTERVAL, CROWNING THE EVENING,

WE PREMIERE LORD AUDITOR VORKOSIGAN’S COMMISSION,

CHOREOGRAPHED BY LLEWELLYN THREE

TO THE _INVASION IMPROMPTU_ BY NICOL SEVEN,

 _THE HAUT PEL’S GRACE TO THE FALLEN_

 

On Barrayar, Miles thought, they would need to add a stern injunction not to leave one’s box during any performance, as quaddie dancers might be travelling rapidly in unexpected directions and zero-g offered very limited means of braking or swerving; Cetagandans presumably didn’t need telling to behave. For the most part. He’d heard Fletchir speaking to Kareen, not before time given the way planetary governors and one or two Consorts had behaved; he didn’t think any meant his brother or sister harm, but the idea of treating outlanders as courteously as they would fellow haut was new to them, and in Mark’s case, as in his own, there was also the profound professional crogglement of committed geneticists faced with such compelling fusions of nurture and nature. He found it amusing, by and large, as Mark could, but Kareen didn’t, and while his brother could bear up Kareen was finding induction as a senior Vorkosigan more than she had bargained for. Nor was she (in Miles’s decided view) getting the help she ought. His clone-brother could make money multiply faster than Zap had kittens, but did not have the knack of making _people_ grow.

He heard Ekaterin hum with pleasure as skin-suited quaddie dancers shot rapidly from numerous entrances around the sphere to cluster as a group in its middle, equidistant from all but initially facing the royal box in uniform ranks. Depending wholly on initial vector, their speed and precision of assembly was astounding to anyone with experience of zero-g; barely one touch to slow or reposition was needed as dancers formed themselves up and bowed or curtsied to Giaja and the unseen Empress. Players in the orchestra bowed and curtsied in unison from their place below the imperial box, and to Miles’s surprise Fletchir not only inclined his head in return but made a gracious gesture, half-acknowledgement of service, half-welcome to guests. The haut might be damnably hard to get to, but once you did, and overcame their pique at being interrupted, they were as undeniably capable of warmth as Barrayarans. In the strange Cetagandan set-up he had always thought the ghem plainly the closer equivalents of the Vor, but since Jack Chandler’s technogenius had allowed the great alliance, renewing his personal acquaintance with the high haut, he found himself wondering about that.

The first low, growling chord of Amaranth’s score sounded as the dancers divided, four males drifting up to a level two-thirds of the sphere’s height while the rest dropped an equal distance. Normally, Miles knew from Bel, the higher dancers, representing legged bioengineers, carried dangling dummy-legs but for this performance something that must use the same technology as the lettering had been contrived, and from each quaddie’s lower hands pairs of trousered and labcoated legs drawn in light simply appeared, sometimes striding about, sometimes crossed, as the dancers swung around one another to move back and forth. Below them the others unfolded one by one to begin evolutions of their own, and acquired numerical designations marking them as gene-slaves on the backs of their programmable skinsuits. Once all were in motion exchanges began, higher, ‘legged’ quaddies swinging down to pass among the lower, hologram legs flattening to trail uselessly behind them, just as quaddies taken to the higher level seemed to have to knuckle-walk, developing contrasts of human-norm and quaddie movement under gravity and in zero-g.

One legged figure in particular went more often to the quaddie group, returning repeatedly to the same female, and soon drew her out to begin a pas-de-deux— _or prise-de-deux, belike_ —in the central space between the groups. This was Leo Graf, the engineer who had helped the quaddies to escape, and Silver, whom he later married. What supreme athleticism and four good grips could achieve in zero-g was remarkable, and the music was compelling, centrally featuring Nicol’s dulcimer, but eventually the prise-de-deux evolved into a narrative of crisis, escape, and flight, epic blending with romance as legged bioengineers circled franticly and the quaddie group led by Leo and Silver began to struggle diagonally across the sphere. Shifting momentum between themselves to edge forward, they were clearly helped from time to time by Leo, whose trailing legs occasionally appeared to brace and push while quaddie hands knuckled in apparent gravity to show their passage through stations as well as space; as they went, the dehumanising numbers faded from their tunics to be replaced by names. Finally, reversing themselves as they reached the very top of the sphere, free quaddies founding their homeland and honouring Leo and Silver fell in swooping curves to end the piece with a dazzling display of celebratory excitement, not that fast but increasingly majestic, an effect Miles realised was driven by the subtle grace that had come to Leo’s legs—their comic potential, so long restrained, not being loosed at all but rather reversed into elegant dignity and athletic harmony. The whole thing had taken about an hour.

As soft applause began and the final tableau broke into individual dancers arraying to take their call, Pel, clapping politely herself, spoke over him to Ekaterin.

“Have you seen that before?”

Smiling, his wife shook her head. “Only vid snippets. Nicol said they had to adjust the choreography quite a bit for the size of this venue.” _And for Cetagandan sensibilities._ Ekaterin glided over the thin ice as if it weren’t there. “I suspect it made their great escape and star-journey more effective, and much more difficult. I have very limited skill in zero-g so I do admire their movement.”

“The movement, yes. High skill and much grace. But I confess I found the music and narrative sentimental.”

“True, though.” Miles was thoughtful. “I grant the sentimentality, and was going to say epics almost have to be so, while surprisingly accurate history commends this one. But I realise I have no idea if you care for epics at all. The haut hardly need an origin myth.” He grinned at Pel, who smiled back with a certain austerity. _Hmmm._ “But tales of love, however necessarily sentimental, are almost universal for good reason.” Pel looked from him to Ekaterin and back, quirking an eyebrow. “Just so. All serendipity, not planning. And in all seriousness, Pel, isn’t that frustrating truth at the heart of the haut’s puzzled fascination with Barrayarans? That we have managed despite ourselves to cohere sufficiently to command your attention?”

 “You know full well it is, Miles, and that we are trying to assess our error.” Pel’s lips compressed. “If error it truly be. We do not forget the wild root of genetics, nor the profligate variation found in us when we began. But power has never been much interested in personal affections, and little history is made by love, surely.”

“It is more than anything what drives Miles, you know.” Ekaterin’s eyes glinted. “Have you ever heard Cordelia say that what Aral calls honour, she calls grace? Miles and I might call it love. And for all the poor women get sacrificed in most epics, the history wouldn’t get far without them. One of the things I like about quaddies is that they didn’t leave anyone behind, and always honoured Leo Graf and Silver.”

“Yes.” Pel was looking thoughtful. _Good_. “Certainly we underestimated some of Old Terra’s thin wisdom. Would you agree that Barrayar’s Time of Isolation makes you closer than most to our common Terran roots? Our judgement has been that it had rather distanced you, as so much of your founding base was destroyed in the anarchy.”

Miles and Ekaterin exchanged a surprised glance. Various high haut had in conversation floated theorems about Barrayar but this gambit was new, and Pel’s untroubled acknowledgement of common ancestry, however self-evident, was not a fact either had heard any haut admit. _Except Fletchir, every time he calls Gregor and Laisa his cousins._ He chose his words carefully.

“We were thrown back on ourselves as baseline humans. Certainly old folk-traditions and wisdoms asserted themselves in the absence of galactic technology and remain a strong part of our rural culture; yet mutation accelerated, and only changes with physical expression might be identified. If we are closer to Terran roots, Barrayar’s soil has been altogether its own.”

Ekaterin smiled at his botanical metaphor but sensibly didn’t try to take it further. “I don’t think it’s about closeness, Pel, nor Terra, save that we are all her children. Forgive me, love”—her hand rested on Miles’s—“but take Mark and Kareen. _He_ had no reason in the Nexus to believe in love, or charity, in its true sense, but when he was offered it he knew it as a drowning man knows a rope. He calls it sincerity, and pretends to cynicism, but it was by offering immediate and unconditional love that Miles and Cordelia not only rescued him from hell but made of a shaped and sworn enemy a loving son and brother. Aral, too. And for all his scarred darkness, Mark won Kareen because he shone with that experience, while she won him because she never failed his trust as knowledge supplanted innocence.”

Miles had been startled by Ekaterin’s turn into familial revelation, and felt the usual squirm of embarrassment at her praise, but by her last sentence had only admiration for the deft combination of argument and parable. He had seen in this cultural but intrinsically political event another chance to push particular consequences of the Cetagandan–Barrayaran alliance, widening circles of personal acquaintance and so paths of communication, squeezing out lingering hostilities, and (if the ballet proved all he hoped) further goosing the haut and ghem, via their sense of aesthetics, into renewed civil engagement with the wider Nexus. Mark’s and Kareen’s complicating presence had seemed a separate problem, an old, emotive knot tied to the secret obsession of the late Baron Ryoval with his hidden Cetagandan heritage and the strained haut sense of gratitude to Mark for killing him—but in Ekaterin’s parable he saw her inspired fusion of issues. His brother’s and sister’s inevitable Beauty-and-the-Beast appearance, exaggerating in Mark’s saturnine corpulence and Kareen’s blonde, athletic height his own contrast with Ekaterin, made them also a walking metaphor for Barrayar’s encounter with the haut, one criss-crossed with fascinating reversals.

Pel too hummed approval of the stroke. “Well, there is testimony to ponder. And I am justly served, for we know well it is not place but people who determine the future.” Her eyes were unusually dark and unfathomable. “Three years ago I would have thought the idea laughable. Even eighteen months ago, Miles, at that pretty invasion we celebrate, I should have told you to beware making _us_ grow. My grace to the fallen was only to dance lightly on their graves, after all. But Palma has made it very plain she finds qualities in your people of the Dendarii she thinks we have too much weakened in our genome, and Rian agrees.” A smile ghosted Pel’s beautiful lips. “Fletchir is an interested, necessarily neutral observer, but his little adventure last year was not without purpose. _I_ remain unsure; perhaps you and your chosen brother and sisters persuade me, little by little.”

“Or little by large.” Miles grinned, fascinated by the implications of Pel’s comments about his last, unexpected meeting with Fletchir, and inwardly delighted, for if the Star Crèche were truly having _that_ argument—and it would do a _lot_ to explain just why Fletchir had wanted to see Silvy Vale for himself; _though not everything, heh_ —then Barrayar had acquired a deeper defence than it knew to reinforce the developing grip of the treaty. “The crowd in Vorbarr Sultana calls us the Chance Brothers, you know, after some odd-couple vid comedians. But the right attitude to enable one to seize a chance that comes is only half of it. Perhaps we should try it with ImpSec and Shuang Mei? ” He winked at Pel as she smothered a laugh. “The rest—”

For some while quaddie stagehands had been organising something in mid-sphere, and whatever other half Miles might have proposed was left dangling as he saw performers begin to arc in while the lights again dimmed. A single figure rose from the orchestra to join them, Llewellyn Three, seating himself at a midair panoply of drums as twenty-three quaddies, each also bearing a drum, arrayed themselves in a loose globe around him. Above them the title of the physical meditation appeared again briefly, _Prime Decay_ , and as it completed its circuit and vanished Llewellyn as drum-master began a beat with one finger of his left lower hand; superb acoustics made it audible everywhere. Five beats in a finger on the right lower hand started a complementary rhythm, followed by fingers on each upper hand, then a second finger on the left lower hand, and again around and around until twenty distinct rhythms blended in impossibly complex array. Then the pattern swept out as first one and then another of the quaddies in the encircling globe picked up one rhythm on their own drums, gradually magnifying the sound until all but three collectively duplicated the intricate twenty-fold beat of the drum-master. He remained still, but each quaddie in the globe had also begun to move as they began to drum, and by the time the master-pattern was replicated all twenty-three were in steady orbits around their drum-centre—which must be generating a tightly focused grav-field of its own. The three spares were a perfect part of the movement but to maintain the rhythmic pattern must be matching one of the other circling drummers as well as one of the master-drummer’s rhythms.

They resembled, Miles realised, the old planetary model of the atom, electrons in orbit around a pulsing centre. The percussive harmony was so exact that as they orbited differing elements of the master-pattern were enforced; nor did it speed or slow at all, but the orbital movements did slowly accelerate, until after some minutes the velocity of the circling drummers was sufficiently great that as they swept toward him and swooped away again a doppler effect began to cramp the tempo and raise the pitch, or stretch and drop it, introducing a fractional wobble in their rhythms that set them slightly at odds with the master-drummer and, increasingly, one another. Given the distances and relatively low speeds involved distortion could only be minuscule, but the underlying perfection of harmony made it disturbing, almost painful to hear. The greater speed also began to stretch the exact cohesion of movement, bringing some dancers close enough together that they had to streamline themselves to avoid collision, increasing speed further. Steadily and inexorably pulsing powers of balance and imbalance built, dancers whipping through the air fast enough to have Miles and, he sensed, Ekaterin tensing in their couches; Pel too, he imagined, but could not tear his eyes away even for a second to check. He was wondering how soon he would start hyperventilating when the point of inevitable collison was reached, and fully half the whirling orb of quaddies seemed to slam together in one place—and they must, by Rian’s hair, know _superbly_ well what they were doing, for four of them were swung around and shot like cannonballs across the diagonals of the sphere directly into exits while the others, dumping momentum into the four, slowed dramatically and caught those not involved in the collision–expulsion, being re-accelerated themselves while they braked the faster movers. In an eyeblink the whole globe of orbits was reformed at the original, stately pace, but with only nineteen drummers. As they gradually fell silent in turn, slowing, the master-drummer’s twenty-fold pattern re-emerged in its complex purity, and then over the final one hundred beats disassembled itself, one finger at a time stilling until a finger of the left lower hand was left to tap five solitary beats, last as it had been first. Silence and stillness returned together, as the globe of quaddies hung in the air.

Pel must have been as tense as he and Ekaterin for as he remembered to breath for what seemed the first time in a while he heard sighs of pleasure and relief on both sides of him. He wanted to look at Ekaterin, to see the flushed wonder that would be in her eyes at such beauty, but made himself look instead at Pel and was taken aback by the rapture in her face, pupils dilated and mouth slightly open as she gazed up at the quaddie globe, still hanging silent as the lights slowly returned to full brightness. An unknown time seemed to stretch, until he felt Ekaterin stir behind him; at the same moment Pel sat smoothly up, looking away from him towards Rian, who was also flushed, then across him to Fletchir. _No. Giaja_. As he followed her gaze he saw a fractional imperial nod, and suddenly all haut and ghem in the imperial box were rising with their Emperor; he and Ekaterin, with other Barrayarans, hastily followed suit as, alarmingly, did the whole audience, bristling inward in every direction from their boxes, pale faces turned out towards the imperial party. The quaddie dancers drew themselves into an array on either side of the master-drummer facing Giaja, some looking puzzled, as Miles himself felt, others with very still faces. Was there to be a speech? But Giaja only stepped a half-pace forward and bowed to the dancers, deeply, as did everyone, faces vanishing around the sphere. Hastily bowing himself Miles saw from the corner of his eye that the Planetary Consorts and Rian were dropping equally deep curtseys, and as he straightened, feeling the thump of his Cetagandan Order of Merit on his chest and craning his neck to see the dancers, he guessed from dropping jaws and stunned looks that the force-shield had momently faded into transparency, affording the quaddies and the startled Cetagandans beyond a glimpse very few ever enjoyed, even among the haut. And true to haut minimalism, Giaja did not say a single word, but simply seated himself again, nodded as the dancers bowed back and began to exit, and turned away from Miles towards Benin. Above the departing dancers and descending Llewellyn, returning to the orchestra-pit, lettering appeared announcing an interval before the premiere.

Turning himself to help Ekaterin sit back on her couch Miles rolled his eyes and ghosted a murmur. “Aesthetic bullseye number four, I fancy. Do they think clapping would be vulgar after that?”

She smiled, responding as quietly. “More that it would be rhythmically coarse, I think.” _Heh. Belike._ “But don’t ask Pel now. I suspect the haut have just had a … religious experience.”

Which perhaps they had, Miles reflected, losing surprise in admiration for his wife’s perception; certainly that reaction was long going to be on the agenda of the Barrayaran study-group on the haut that Gregor had set up and often chaired himself. Turning to Pel he found her studying him with irony back in her ageless blue eyes.

“ _That_ , Miles, was altogether remarkable. You may have to delay the Barrayaran premiere, for the troupe will receive very many invitations to perform it, you know. From each Consort and Governor. And the Satraps will be falling over themselves. Tell Nicol, please, that they needn’t go anywhere, of course, if they don’t wish, but that if they do they’d better go everywhere. To the Eight, at least, but I’d prefer the satrapies as well.”

Miles stared at her shrewdly, heart thumping. “They are become talismans, then?”

“Oh yes. Fletchir has not responded to a performance like that for more than thirty years; his standards are very high.” She grinned, then looked thoughtfully at Ekaterin. “The structure of that piece could _not_ be better judged for us and the single prime iteration is inspired. I feared they might continue through seventeen and thirteen but Llewellyn Three knew better. Aesthetically? Or did someone do superior research?”

“Not I.” Ekaterin smiled. “Truly, Pel. You know I talked to Llewellyn in general terms about haut aesthetics, but that was for the commission.” _No need to say the talk went on for weeks._ “This piece is several years old, I believe, but whether they always use twenty-three and nineteen or scaled it up for this space I have no idea. Nor what sheer Newtonian math must dictate about the possibilities.” She tilted her head slightly. “Do you suppose an allusion to chromosomal pairs? Or Vanadium and Potassium?”

“Oh, both, I’m sure.” Pel grinned again. “I was pondering the degree of subtle rebuke in the lesson about size, stability, and minimalism but perhaps that’s just my guilty conscience. In any case, we have an interval to think about it. Do you need facilities?”

 

* * * * *

 

The imperial box was situated to provide direct access to reception rooms built into the broad collar within which the sphere rested. Emerging from brief visits to an _en suite_ retiring room, past Imperial Guards and Ba servitors offering refreshments, Miles and Ekaterin found Benin and the Emperor receiving with surprising informality the visiting Graf Station dignitaries, introduced by Bel Thorne—who was, Miles saw with relief, on its very best behaviour. Restraining his wicked urge to wink at the herm he exchanged polite small talk commending the performances with a very proud but rather intimidated quaddie Adjudicator, whatever that was, until Fletchir had done His gracious duty as host. It was probably, Miles thought, a shrewd Cetagandan arrangement, flattering to Quaddies as a whole while avoiding the politics of a formal reception, that had become overlaid by Fletchir’s genuine pleasure in _Prime Decay_. When he discovered the Adjudicator was among those going to the _après_ -ballet reception at the embassy he contented himself by asking the complaisant quaddie to convey his personal greetings to Colonel Lord Vorpatril, ideally with a wink. At last Bel escorted its guests out, giving Miles an ironic but delighted smile, and Fletchir, visibly relaxing, turned to Ekaterin. But though he spoke Barrayaran his address remained formal.

“Lady Vorkosigan. This marvel was not of your making, yet once again you are present when I find myself aesthetically moved to a memorable degree. Somehow I don’t believe in coincidence.” Ekaterin blinked and he smiled reassuringly. “I share Pel’s reservations about the epic while admiring its spirit, but that physical meditation was in every way fine. Llewellyn Three is as true a master of his arts as Madam Nicol of hers, so we have much still to anticipate.”

Ekaterin nodded but moved one hand a little, adding an ambivalence. “Indeed, Celestial Lord, yet _The haut Pel’s Grace to the Fallen_ must be different again; certainly with more narrative than _Prime Decay_ —and if I were programming I’m not sure I would have the courage to put that anywhere but last place!” She gave a disarming smile, and Fletchir nodded, smiling in return. “So perhaps our premiere can only help to frame the real triumph.”

“No, no, my Lady.” Miles understood her cautious damping of overexpectation but it had already done its job. “Nicol’s impromptu is music of a different order; hardly without sentiment or narrative, but very different sentiments and for us a much more intimate narrative. I agree the fascinations must be distinct, but surely pleasure will not therefore be less.” With the quaddies gone, Pel and Rian had appeared at Fletchir’s side while Miles spoke, and behind them he saw Benin ushering in Helen and Georg with Mark and Kareen following. _Ah. Time for business._ “And I confess, Pel, I disagreed with you earlier when you said your grace to the fallen was only to dance lightly on their graves. To some it was that you danced most firmly on others, and to all it was a promise of new beginning as well as overdue ending. Besides, I am fascinated to see what quaddie grace can make of our shameless humour that day. The Betan observer, I swear, was more shocked by our levity than by the invasion itself.”

Ekaterin gurgled laughter, and smiles came all round. “Oh, he was too, poor man. As if we should all have been funereal, or veiled our eyes. But it was a joyous day, as Nicol’s _Impromptu_ declared, and surely no dancer could fail to respond to that joy in her music.” She looked steadily at Fletchir. “And you will have placed them on their mettle, Celestial Lord, with your acknowledgement of their excellence.”

“It was richly deserved.” Rian’s smile glowed at Miles and Ekaterin. “And you understand perfectly, Ekaterin; the Emperor bows to no haut, and certainly no outlander, only to perfect excellence, beauty in itself. As that was.” She sighed gently. “Like you I anticipate further variety, not disappointment, but I had not foreseen a piece so fine.” Extending Fletchir’s earlier attentions— _yes!_ —she turned to Kareen. “And what did you see, Lady Kareen, in that physical meditation?”

Mentally Miles crossed his fingers but either Fletchir’s plain speaking earlier had helped more than he had supposed possible, or Kareen was still sufficiently drunk on the quaddies’ performance to overcome her nerves; her eyes were certainly shining-bright.

“Stars, Celestial Lady, and atoms, and life. Harmonies of change and endurance. And can you imagine the rehearsals!”

Her seemingly artless wonder brought … Miles had to call them guffaws from all the haut, and a genuine smile from Dag Benin. _Interesting._  Rian looked very approving, and Fletchir nodded, still smiling.

“That thought crossed my mind too, Lady. There must have been some terrible tangles. But I like _harmonies of change and endurance_.” A calculating look came to his eye. “Will you permit me to steal your phrase when occasion arises? Such an elegant statement of the paradox should not go unappreciated.”

Now Kareen blushed, but with pleasure. “Of course, Celestial Lord. It would be my honour.” She hesitated, looking at Mark beside her, then ploughed on. “I hope to write, one day. I like the old printed narratives they had before holovids, and while commercial work with Mark is very satisfying it’s hard to be _excited_ by words that must always advertise something other than themselves.” A thoughtful look crossed her face. “Though the plain-glasses campaign is becoming _very_ interesting. May I ask if reading such old fictions is ever a pastime here, as it is for some on Barrayar?”

“Yes, certainly.” Pel’s voice was unexpectedly brisk. _She’s taking an opening. Going where?_  “I read such things when I have time.” She winked at Miles. “Romances, even. A great pleasure and indulgence. Fletchir’s taste runs more to military biography, I’m afraid, and Rian is hopelessly scientific, but many haut and ghem admire the arts of imagined narrative. It’s one of the things we like so much about Miles.” _Ooh! Pel could talk._ She glanced at him again, pure wickedness in her eyes. _Uh-oh …_ “Which reminds me, Professora, to say that with one or two deletions we would very much like to circulate your essay on the Vorkosigans rather more widely—if you and your Imperial Master will permit. Fletchir has mentioned it to him, I believe.”

“I have, Professora.” The imperial baritone went about its exquisite work. _Damn._ “Another masterly performance, entirely fascinating.”

Miles wouldn’t go quite that far, for Helen had necessarily left out several things she knew and rather more she didn’t, but he conceded privately that it had been a _very_ interesting document, and had left him (like his parents) feeling distinctly inward for several days while they digested the almost brutal, unifying clarity of her thesis about their collective effect on Barrayaran and galactic history. More to the point, this _reeked_ of imperial ambush and he could already see how he would be dragooned. Here it came.

“Cousin Gregor said We must seek your permission also, Lord Auditor, and that of the Viceroy and Vicereine. But please do not insist on too much being removed, my Lord; your _aunt_ is very concise already.”

The stress was so fractional Miles wondered if anyone but he and Ekaterin heard it; certainly no-one else would understand the thrust. He glowered at Fletchir briefly, and opposite him Mark laughed, a sound that made all the haut twitch. _And Helen._

“Serves you right well, brother.” He turned briefly to Helen. “I regret you saw fit to mention me at all, Professora, and I wish Jackson’s Whole utterly forgotten, as it deserves to be. I also regret your line about Ryoval’s hand being my own poor equivalent of Vordarian’s head by way of demonstrating Barrayaran qualities and Vorkosigan credentials, though it made me laugh. But”—his hands moved in a complex gesture Miles had never seen, before one sought Kareen’s—“if I will not shirk in _this_ company from acknowledging that I put my foot through Ry Ryoval’s neck, why should I care who else knows?” He laughed again, renewing haut twitches. “Yet I fear, Celestial Lord, my brother has more to worry about. Even the Professora’s admirably vague summary of his ImpSec career, released to Vorbarr Sultana at large, would cause … what, Miles? Hysteria? Heart-attacks? An outbreak of hives?”

“Conniptions?” Ekaterin offered helpfully. Miles winced. “Less astonishment than you think, in any case, love. Your public career makes _no_ sense at all, you know. People do notice, these days. And I don’t suppose Pel means to _release_ Aunt Helen’s essay on Barrayar, only that copies are bound to leak in.”

“Flood in,” Miles muttered. “If it’s declassified they’ll use it mercilessly at the Institute.”

He saw Helen nod cheerfully and unrepentantly, and realised she had written the document with a careful eye to rapid declassification for exactly this reason. _Gah._ He looked up to see Fletchir regarding him intently and played it straight.

“May I ask why You want a significantly wider circle of your subjects to be aware of the Professora’s thesis, Celestial Lord?”

He got a straight answer. “Because their speculation is intense, Lord Auditor, and I would rather they had some better guidance while they are about it. I also want more varied minds at the work of understanding you.” He gestured elegantly to encompass all Barrayarans present. “You have set Us a great puzzle, as you well know, and intervened decisively in Our affairs. The ghem only understood Barrayarans at all far too late, and even now most haut understand your people very imperfectly. Having opened the interface, will you now refuse to pass through as a shining example? Is not the only way forwards, my Lord?”

Mile smiled at him acidly, ignoring the familiar, layered irony, the  crisp feudal vocative, and the appreciative smiles all around. “You are well revenged, Sire.” He saw his own vocative go home. “I will consider any proposed deletions very carefully, and otherwise resign myself to fame and an informed acquaintance of which I long despaired, but have lately discovered I do not especially want.” Fletchir laughed— _as well he might_ —though Rian and Pel didn’t, looking at Miles guardedly. He made a lightning decision. “You know, of course, as Helen guesses, that much is in any case missing. We could both name some of it. Celestial Lord, will you permit in this company some careful plain speaking?”

All Giaja, Fletchir went very still. “Yes.”

“Then tell me, how shall we spin the necessary balance? With General Benin’s holovid I had no choice. And I’m sorry, Dag, but it does make an awful lot of ghem glare rather than merely stare at me. Quite apart from all those seething haut the other evening. This time I forego choice, recognising … Cetagandan need, which is not mine, nor my Imperial Master’s. And the ballet we are about to see will publicly proclaim what many already know of Pel’s involvement in what Helen will be calling with your imprimatur a Vorkosigan dance. I respect the silences on which you insist, Celestial Lord, though I may not understand them, but you are asking Mark and I to continue very publicly to shield … Cetaganda.”

Fletchir nodded slowly. “Yes, I follow your logic. And appreciate, for once, your tact.” He frowned slightly, gazing at Miles, then Mark. “ I acknowledge service, and will think. Perhaps—” His gaze swept around the group to Dag.“General, how long before the performance resumes?”

Dag consulted in a murumur what must be an internal command-net, and after a brief pause replied. “About twenty minutes, Sire.”

“Thank you. That should suffice.” _He_ ’s _really going to do it!_ “Please excuse all Guards and Ba from Our hearing and inform the quaddie conductor the Imperial Party may be a trifle late returning to their box.” Benin blinked and murmured again as Giaja took a slim control from a hidden pocket; at a touch chairs began forming from the floor in a broad circle. “Please be seated.”

Fletchir sat himself, silent until the last Imperial Guard had retreated; Dag stood behind his Master’s chair, a rare look of surprise visible to Miles beneath his Imperial Array.

“As you are all so serendipitously here”—he gave Miles a look—“and include among you almost half the Barrayarans, I guess, who already know this secret, let me take a leaf from Cousin Gregor’s impetuous book. Yet I must request from those who do not yet know”—he nodded to the Vorthyses—“your Names’ Words that it never be spoken of save to one another, your Imperial Master, or the Viceroy and Vicereine.”

Fletchir’s information was extremely accurate, and Miles wondered how much he had learned from Gregor of the major story about the invasion of Jackson’s Whole that the very few Barrayarans who knew it weren’t telling anyone. Enough to make some shrewd guesses, at any rate. The Vorthyses offered their Words without hesitation, and Fletchir nodded and thanked them. _Here we go._

“The missing datum, Professora, is that the late Baron Ryoval’s even later father was a renegade haut.” Miles saw Helen’s eyes start with surprise fading rapidly into intent calculation. “The detail of his actions, which explain an unpleasant amount about the swift beginnings of the Jacksonian trade in cloning and brain transplant, are embarrassing, but it is not that We must conceal. Publicising the fact of such a renegade is in itself fraught with danger, for he both turned from and _escaped_ Us.” Fletchir’s lips compressed. “Then his son killed him, and was himself eventually slain by neither haut nor ghem, but by Lord Mark, to whom Our necessary secrecy denies proper reward. And beyond this matter of security, We can allow neither this haut’s identity nor any data whatever about him into the public domain, even now.”

Miles nodded professional appreciation as Giaja steepled his long fingers.

“It is in part, however, why the invasion could serve Us and Barrayar as it did, and Lord Auditor Vorkosigan is right that We are for security and convenience letting his known motives for revenging himself on Jackson’s Whole, and Lord Mark’s, occupy much too prominent a place in your account. We have notably contributed to the Institute data on the Hegen Hub, Dagoola IV, and Marilac, and allowed Our eventual resolution of the considerable confusions afforded Us by Admiral Naismith and Lord Mark to explain with general disapproval of their gene-trading Our willingness, when circumstances suddenly permitted, to punish the Jacksonians, but We did not, and will not, reveal Our deeper motives. We acknowledge the agents who died in Our service on Jackson’s Whole, and imagine their images will grace the ballet, as they did the day itself; but We ascribe them only general intelligence roles and say nothing true of the mission they were attempting, and Lord Mark achieved.” Helen’s eyes went very wide again as Fletchir glanced at Mark, irony is full view. “Barrayar has a certain way with fictions, We have found. So Our question to you all is what story We should best and most justly now tell.” The Celestial gaze swung slightly. “Lady Kareen?”

His eyes on the Professora, Miles almost breathed _Oh my!_ in unison with her before shifting to meet Kareen’s startled and beseeching gaze. He looked between her and Mark, and openly relaxed, smiling warmly at her.

“Say what you will, Kareen. This is justly your competence. Only … trust beyond reason for results beyond hope, remember.”

Startled again, Kareen nodded thoughtfully, and turned back to Giaja. “What I know of security and fiction, Celestial Lord, says that the best lies are at once the biggest and closest to truth. So if your renegade must not be a haut, let him—oh, forgive me, General—be a ghem.” Dag nodded amiably, looking thoughtful himself. _Bless the man._ “And if he must not have cleverly stolen something secret, let him have been entrusted with something lesser but basely profitable that he did not well understand, which when misused caused his son to be so … deranged.”

Fletchir was also looking thoughtful. _Eh?_ “That might do very well, Lady Kareen, but you think only of Our needs. How shall We then justly honour your husband’s success where We failed?”

Kareen looked uncertain, and turned to Mark. “Love? What do _you_ want? You said you didn’t mind if people knew you killed Baron Ryoval. Do you mind about calling his father a ghem?”

“Call him a lizard for all I care. He certainly wasn’t _human_.” Mark’s face was closed, but he went on more conversationally. “Of course, the Ryoval I killed was physically a clone, as I am, and not that old. Mid-forties, maybe. Beyond the word ‘haut’, who or what first bore the brain I pulped, and what if any genes beside his own his father used, I have no idea.”

Pel’s, Rian’s, and Fletchir’s gazes met, and Pel spoke. “Ryoval _père et fils_ were both clones. Who of, we’re unsure, but a healthy human specimen with some augmentation. The bodies were vat-grown for serial brain transplant—we found some remaining stock being used for experimentation in the Bharaputra labs. One was raised as a deputy, and perhaps a safety-measure, but killed his progenitor to seize power himself.”

“Really?” Mark— _or someone_ —was smiling mirthlessly. “So when young Ry killed his Da he was killing himself?”

“Somagenetically, yes.”

“Heh. A suicide as well as a patricide, then. And a fratricide. One-and-a-half up on me.” Someone laughed again. “Did you know about this, Miles?”

“I suspected it.” From some of the House Ryoval files Baron Fell once sent the Dendarii, but Miles didn’t propose to tell _that_ story without better reason, and saw Mark and Kareen both register his concealment of the source. “Ry was far too egotistical ever to have countenanced diluting his own genes, and I assumed his father, or progenitor, was the same. But I can’t say I cared one way or the other so long as he wound up personally and irretrievably dead. For which my thanks.”

Mark waved this away, frowning.

“But Kareen’s excellent advice about fictions”—Miles winked at her—“prompts a thought.” He swung his gaze tound. “Your concern, Celestial Lord, is that openly to thank Mark for killing Ryoval would draw attention to what must then be misrepresented?” Fletchir nodded, guardedly. “Then he must be thanked for something else—like rescuing children slated for brain-death from the Jacksonian clone-crèches in 2801.”

As Mark huffed and glowered in turn, Miles let his address broaden, affecting not to notice the sudden intentness in haut eyes. “Mark resents not being able to rescue them all, as our Imperial Masters later managed so spectacularly to do. But he took wild risks to save all he could, and more than forty children now live who otherwise would not.”

Both Pel and Rian had visibly stiffened, and Rian looked piercingly at Mark. “From which houses did you rescue children, Lord Mark?”

Mark frowned and Miles held his breath, but his brother answered readily enough. “Bharaputra and Ryoval. The Barons’ own clones were held privately somewhere else, but they ran a joint commercial crèche and special orders unit. It was the biggest concentration of children I knew of to try for. Does it matter?”

Pel cut in smoothly. “It may, Lord Mark. We know Ryoval obtained and used haut genes, and we have always been concerned for the lives he might have made with them. Would it be possible for us to see images of the children you rescued?”

Mark shot Miles a look that could have drawn blood, but he held his brother’s gaze, and after a moment Mark nodded reluctantly, turning back to Rian and reaching into his pocket. “I always carry a holocube of them. To remind me of _why_.”

He activated the ‘cube and with a small bow handed it to Rian. Fletchir and Pel on either side of her, like Benin behind them, looked intently at the images as Rian scolled through them—with, Miles counted carefully, three fractional and one longer hesitations, which he saw Mark also notice, tensing as he did so. After a moment it was again Pel who spoke.

“I would guess, Lord Mark, that three or four of those children have haut genes. They would be welcome here. Will you permit us to send someone to speak to them?”

Mark looked mulish, stared again at Miles, and stood to face the haut. “Your Imperial Majesties. I swore to myself to protect those children.” He swallowed. “Forgive me, but as You were earlier obliged with the Lord Auditor and Professora, so I must now ask you for your oaths that you mean these children only good, and no harm; that You acknowledge them as people, not as property you would recover and have the right to … disassemble.”

Miles winced while applauding the demand, but Rian didn’t hesitate. “Lord Mark, you have my oath as Handmaiden of the Star Crèche that if these children choose to come to Us they will do so in free will, and here be both free and well-treated, with all rights.” She paused, looking at Giaja.

“You have Our word also, Lord Mark; nor hurt nor harm will come to them at Our hand, which We will hold over them.”

Not waiting for any acknowledgement, Rian spoke again. “The blonde girl I paused at—is she mute?”

Startled, Mark nodded. “Yes, Handmaiden. Physicians could find no anatomical or biochemical cause, and she doesn’t seem otherwise hurt or obviously traumatised, but has never spoken a word.” He hesitated. “But then, she was in the special orders unit. I’d rather assumed it was a programmed muteness, but we found no obvious nervous tampering. Do you believe you could help her?”

“Almost certainly.” Rian’s beautiful alto was as tense as Miles had ever heard it; which was, he thought, remembering the kinds of strain he’d once seen her under, a thing to ponder. “It is likely to be a psychogenetic block that we can … treat. There may be more such problems hidden in the other children. It is … important to us to help, Lord Mark.”

Abruptly Mark bowed again, not as deeply but somehow more sincerely. “As it is to me. I have your solemn Words, Handmaiden, Celestial Lord; I can wish no more. As soon as I have leisure and a frame to use I will contact the Durona Group on Escobar, who have supervised the children’s care for me. Send whom you will.”

As Mark sat again Miles felt tension drop, though all the haut, he thought, were deeply emotional, Fletchir and Rian staring at one another, Pel eyeing him ironically and approvingly but also with something he didn’t recognise at all. _Could Ryoval have borne_ Celestial _genes? It would explain much_.He had not realised what he was about might cut _quite_ so near a major Cetagandan nerve, whatever it was; another new item for the Barrayaran study-group’s fast-expanding agenda. In his relief he did not miss Dag’s glance at Fletchir for permission before looking wryly at Miles and speaking to Mark.

“Lord Mark, certain things I had not quite understood in our Dendarii and Jacksonian files about that episode in 2801 become clearer to me, and if you did what I think you must, and how, it was a resounding grace-note in a tangled tune. And I recall, Sire, that some years ago Satrap the haut Arpanda admitted to the warrant of his _personal_ house a citizen by conquest who had, at grave risk to her life, saved several _ghem_ -children from an accident that killed their parents. It was an interesting precedent.”

“Indeed, General, that _is_ well remembered.” Giaja looked shrewdly at Mark. “Such a warrant from Our House, Lord Mark, carries generous tax exemptions, and would in the case of an outlander naturally attract trade concessions to match. Your new game might benefit, as well as your glasses and comestibles, and there is, I know, much botanical and zoological work on Barrayar and Sergyar that ghem-geneticists might help with, and that a calculated tax-structure might effectively encourage. Within the framework of the Trades and Tariffs Treaty, of course.”

Mark’s eyes brightened. “I mean no offence, Celestial Lord, but that makes far better sense to me than most honours, if you truly feel obligated to public thanks. I didn’t expect any.”

“I know.” Fletchir’s voice was wholly uninflected. “But I believe We have solved several problems here today. Cousin Gregor has much method in His sometimes seeming madness. You look pensive, however, Professora.”

Miles followed Fletchir’s gaze, and saw as he expected what he privately called Helen’s horrible historical look.

“I imagine I do, Celestial Lord. I understand necessities, but I am always uneasy to think of … juggling the public record. But”—she brightened, smiling a little—“I was also professionally interested to see You so intent on doing all the justice that _is_ possible.”

“Not quite all, Professora.” Giaja gestured gracefully, and they stood, then rose himself as Ba servitors and guards re-entered. “But the rest of the evening awaits us.”

Taking Ekaterin’s hand to follow Giaja and the others back into to the box Miles found himself on the whole well satisfied with the surprising conversation. Neither he nor Gregor had thought Fletchir would go so far, and his hunch that as allies the haut ought to know about the children Mark had rescued had clearly been a serious underestimate. _To say the least; which meant Gregor owed him a horse of his choice from the imperial stables. Heh._ But the scene was surely now set for _The haut Pel’s Grace to the Fallen_. Which had been some Grace; and some Fallen.

 

 

III 

Settling back into her couch beside Mark, Kareen’s head was whirling. Although she had known from Uncle Aral himself that the haut felt indebted to Mark for killing Ryoval, and had supposed that to account for the horrid curiosity they had shown, all surreptitious stares and burning glances, she had not really understood how strong that sense of debt was in Emperor the haut Fletchir Giaja, and wondered again who the renegade could have been. Some imperial relative, perhaps, or high scion? And besides, what _was_ Miles really up to? She might lack his ability to intuit close-held secrets apparently from thin air but she was neither a fool nor unobservant, and the cross-currents in that whole conversation screamed of distinctly Milesian intrigue. With acuity sharpened by the special insights loving Mark had given her, she suspected that wringing from the Cetagandans an acknowledgement of Mark was probably close to the heart of the plan, but Miles had, as usual, wrapped it up in he alone knew what shells of pangalactic action. _Though Gregor might have guessed. And Dag Benin._

As she peered sideways at Giaja, murmuring something to a Ba servitor, a thought suddenly arrested her. Kareen knew Gregor as well as almost anyone who wasn’t born a Vorkosigan, Vorpatril, or Vorvolk, except Simon Illyan, and an emperor was an emperor; she didn’t think this one any more likely than Gregor to do anything spontaneously, let alone give away high and dangerous secrets. _Which means it_ wasn’t _the real secret. It was the lie to conceal that secret._ And what could be so dangerous a secret that a successfully renegade haut was an acceptable fiction of concealment? The Ba bowed and departed, and Kareen remembered what Miles had told them about the _genderless_ Ba and their use to the haut during the pre-trip briefing; a renegade _Ba_ would not only have had no choice but to clone, but in all likelihood known a very great deal—silent servants always did. Could _that_ be …? She drew breath to whisper the thought to Mark, but caught herself in time: if the haut were concealing it, Miles was helping them; and she would do nothing to imperil the haut offer of help with those rescued clone-children on Escobar, whom she knew weighed on Mark’s mind—not that there seemed any danger of it given the tense haut eagerness to be of assistance. _Demand, really_. About to sink into her couch she found Benin, Giaja, and beyond them Miles and Ekaterin regarding her gravely, almost gulped but didn’t, nodded to them all firmly, and lay back to be stunned by the sudden thought that her instinctive response had been her first real action here as Lady Kareen Vorkosigan.

 _I_ can _do this, after all._

She was still smiling as the lights dimmed and that marvellous lettering in light reappeared, shining in the darkness.

 

TO THE _INVASION IMPROMPTU_ BY NICOL SEVEN,

 _THE HAUT PEL’S GRACE TO THE FALLEN_

 

The lettering ribboned and faded while the whole sphere sank into near-darkness and complete silence. Kareen braced herself for the tremendous, rippling chord that began Nicol’s _Impromptu_ , but the silence endured as low red lights came up in the lowest part of the sphere, below the level of the imperial box, illuminating an appalling tableau—bubbles featuring images Kareen recognised as the Baron and Baronne Bharaputra, Baron Fell, and others she didn’t know, each held by an almost invisible black-garbed dancer, floating serenely above a contortion of slowly writhing quaddies, limbs twisted to what seemed impossible angles, faces so stretched in rictus she could not help but imagine their screams. After a dreadful, staring moment while she felt revulsion sweep the audience she became aware through her pity of a different, cleaner light, and looked up to see, almost at the top of the sphere, glowing white bubble-images of Gregor and Fletchir Giaja, at first alone, then joined, on Gregor’s side, by images of Tante Cordelia and Uncle Aral, then Miles, and on Giaja’s side Benin, and two roseate bubbles that must represent Rian and Pel.

Silence remained absolute as bubbles bearing ghem-faces she remembered from the day of the invasion appeared below Giaja and fell purposely toward and into the animated frieze of writhing quaddies below, only to vanish. Then she heard Mark hiss at her side and followed his gaze to see with shock, among the writhing quaddies, bubbles bearing images of Taura and Mark himself, struggling for space and then rising towards the top of the group. Mirroring the ghem-bubbles Giaja had despatched, the Miles-bubble swooped down and its dancer caught an upper hand of the quaddie who held the Taura-bubble, lifting both up to the middle of the sphere, before the bubbles swung down again together to lift the Mark-bubble; and all three, a third time, to seize a chain of smaller bubbles—children—and pull them free, spinning them to bubbles in that grey Dendarii Mercenary uniform Miles had once shown her, who sped them toward exits before rising back with the Mark- and Taura-bubbles to positions below Gregor and the senior Vorkosigans.

Kareen turned her head to meet Mark’s eyes and saw his mixture of shock, astonished admiration at just how close to the wind Miles the Relentless had been sailing in that peculiar conversation just now, and, beneath it all, pride. _Yes!_ Her heart eased and appreciation of her lunatic brother-in-law impossibly rose another big notch as she took in the therapeutic fraternal care he had somehow managed here, but her attention was drawn back to the dumbshow still unfolding above her when, for the first time, the Gregor- and Giaja-bubbles turned to face one another. After a moment the Miles- and Benin-bubbles spun out to meet one another mid-way between the groups, rotated slowly around, and returned. Another moment, and the emperors themselves launched into graceful arcs that brought them together, and as they came to rest side-by-side the first great, triumphant, melded chord of Nicol’s music rippled through the sphere and everything changed.

Light picked out Nicol herself in the soloist’s spot in the orchestra-pit and blazed in the upper half of the sphere where the complete Barrayaran and Cetagandan parties assembled around the emperors—Gregor having acquired a Laisa-bubble beside him, Miles an Ekaterin-bubble, and Mark, she saw with real shock, a Kareen-bubble to match, far more beautiful and elegant than she had ever imagined herself, while on the Cetagandan side more roseate Planetary-Consort bubbles and others showing ghem-Admirals Lhosh and Arvin appeared around Giaja. Then the ghem-officers swung down to meet Uncle Aral and Miles at a point about two-thirds of the height of the sphere, and from the entrances at that level poured dancers with bubbles bearing images of ships, the Vorbarra Arms, and the black-and-white Imperial Array used by ghem-officers on personal service to Giaja. Driven by Nicol’s now striding music, born of and wrought in moments of heartfelt relief, pleasure at bloodless rescue, and joy in clean, overwhelming revenge, the movements of commanders and ships alike were at once disciplined and graceful, but also somehow pleased themselves, eager in their work; below them the Baron-bubbles crabwalked in alarm, while tangled quaddies unfroze, stretching their relief and letting smiles come to their faces. Above them all, a fraction below the emperors, one roseate bubble moved to a central position and (rippling shock through the audience) resolved into a visible image of haut Pel that instantly made Kareen think of Ivan indignantly calling her insanely beautiful. Eyes blazing, hair in long, swinging plaits, rose gown swirling with flecks of iridescent colour, Pel began to dance.

What was part of the bubble’s moving image and what the movements of the quaddie dancer holding it Kareen was never sure, then or later, for the two were melded, the dancer’s upper hands becoming extensions of the image’s arms as the lower ones held and manipulated the bubble in gorgeous, lyrical movement. Below her Aral and Miles with Benin, Lhosh, and Arvin danced inspiration and command, while the larger ship bubbles were also, absurdly yet not risibly, dancing to the lowest and slowest of Nicol’s rhythms, as smaller ships danced faster to higher ones. Below all the Barons and Baronnes sank into awkward, arhythmic panic as once contorted quaddies leaped around them, climbing the arpeggios and flourishes of the music to freedom, until bubbles swooped to carry them aside, and others to seize and arrest Jacksonians. And as Ekaterin had been insisting when that interval conversation began, all the Barrayaran and Cetagandan bubbles, while never less than dignified, and in the case of the emperors and Pel majestic, were _joyful_. The music demanded it, echoing and rolling its exuberant contentment, and the dancing Pel rode the hearts of both music and movement, grace spilling from her gesturing hands to gild the willing labours of conquest below.

As the music slowly diminished the glorious business hummed and evolved into its distinct harmonies, before conquerors, liberated, and even the conquered were drawn together into the final melding harmony and tonal resolutions, until with the last note a perfect tableau hung before her—emperors uppermost, Pel at graceful rest, freed quaddies with arms outstretched in acclamation around all, and the victorious commanders, troop-emblems, and ships arrayed over crouched and supplicant Jacksonians. There was a long, long silence after the last harmonies had faded, and then, all but making Kareen jump in her seat, a _deafening_ crash of applause.

Everyone seemed to be clapping and cheering, haut as well as ghem; she was clapping herself, as was Mark beside her, grinning wildly. Stealing a sideways glance she saw Giaja wasn’t, though his hands rested together; he was simply absorbing the sound, listening with some inner imperial ear to the unaccustomed exuberance of His subjects. Beyond him, however, the outermost section of the force-shield disappeared, and Pel stood, openly visible, to drop the dancers a deep curtsey. Then, as bubbles disappeared and the quaddie dancers broke their tableau,, gathering before the imperial box for their bow, the Ba servitor came again to stand just behind Giaja and as soon as the dancers were arrayed he stood, gesturing sharply with one hand. The noise cut off as abruptly as it had begun, leaving everyone, including herself, on their feet awaiting his words. He began, and having heard him speak so recently and informally Kareen had for the first time a clear sense of how much he added to his voice in public, subtle, layered harmonics of suasion and assurance. _Amazing._

“Honoured haut and honourable ghem, distinguished Barrayaran and quaddie guests. We have been privileged tonight to experience three flawless performances of three remarkable works. All praise to the makers and performers.” Stepping forward a half-pace he bowed again, as he had after _Prime Decay_ , and the whole audience bowed or curtsied with him, but this time he stepped back, still standing, and continued. “In token of Our appreciation, We would now ask the Minchenko Ballet’s principal composer, Llewellyn Three, leading soloist Garnet Five who danced the role of the haut Pel Navarr, and the incomparable musician Nicol Seven to accept enrollment in the warrant of Our House.”

The three quaddies were propelled forward by their grinning fellows to the very edge of the imperial box amid a soft murmur of surprise from the audience; each bowed and smiled back at the smiles dazzling them as they received in turn from the haut Emperor, with a curious ceremonial gesture that made Kareen think of religious blessings, handsome, red-ribboned scrolls that the Ba servitor had evidently brought. Pel had moved to stand beside Giaja, and to louder murmurs of surprise shook hands with all three before adding an explanation.

“There is not, as I understand, any distinction closely equivalent to these warrants in your culture. They declare you friends of Cetaganda, always welcome here as our guests in the Celestial Garden. You will also find, if you accept the many invitations to perform you will surely receive, that the status they confer eases your way, and your company’s, with our lesser officialdom.”

Haut and ghem of sufficiently high rank and privilege to be here were too cultured to laugh openly, but Kareen saw smiles on nearer faces, and nods of agreement as Llewellyn bowed, expressing his and the company’s thanks and pleasure in having performed well for such distinguished auditors and spectators. The quaddies withdrew to their fellows, still in mid-sphere—and, sensibly, stayed there, for both Giaja and Pel were still standing, and Giaja had raised a hand.

“One piece We saw told of events long past, and though We honour the trials and valour of the Quaddie Nation, those events need not trouble us today. The second was a meditation to which all with sense must attend, building in abstraction what Lady Kareen Vorkosigan was moved to call harmonies of change and endurance.”

As he spoke her name Giaja inclined his head to her, and she felt her face heat as she dipped in return, but also a cool and flowing confidence, a gifted reassurance that sharply recalled Gregor and set her wondering anew about imperial capacities. Then she remembered the newsies who were seeing this at the embassy. _Yikes!_

“The third, however, touching Us so much more nearly, must command Our attention now. My Imperial Cousin and Cousine, Their Imperial Majesties Gregor and Laisa Toscane Vorbarra, Emperor and Empress of Barrayar, could not be here tonight, nor Their Viceroy and Vicereine of Sergyar, nor ghem-Admirals Arvin and Lhosh, nor the redoubtable Sergeant Taura, but others whose faces and actions all saw are here—Lord Auditor and Lady Vorkosigan, Lord Mark and Lady Kareen Vorkosigan, ghem-General Benin, and of course the haut Pel Navarr.”

Lights picked them all out, a group arrayed on either side of Giaja, and as the audience unexpectedly bowed or curtsied to them all she hoped her face was not showing the nerves that fluttered her stomach and made her legs tremble beneath her long dress. But the confidence was still there too, even beginnings of enjoyment, so that she glimpsed in herself how it might be possible to draw energy and poise from mass attention, as Ekaterin seemed to do, rather than losing them to flummox and self-consciousness.

“Of the honours due the Planetary Consort of Eta Ceta and ghem-General Benin We have spoken elsewhere. But We speak now of the honours due these Barrayarans among Us, whom We can no longer deem outlanders for they have all in goodwill spoken freely to Our hearts, contributing unexpected wisdom to Our counsels and timely strength to Our hand.”

Even if Kareen had not known how fiercely all Cetagandans—and especially the _haut_ —guarded their distinct identity she would have felt the profound surprise that _slammed_ the audience, deepening collective silence to dumbstruck astonishment. Giaja turned to Miles and Ekaterin.

“Lord Auditor and Lady Vorkosigan, you perhaps did not realise that your respective memberships of Our Orders of Merit and Virtue have already conferred upon you enrollment in the Warrant of our House. We are pleased now to enroll you both, with Lord Mark and Lady Kareen”—he glanced towards her and Mark as an imperial gesture encompassed all four Vorkosigans—“in the Grand Warrant of the Inner Garden.”

What that was Kareen had not the slightest idea, but from the queer groans that sounded in the audience and Miles’s startled look it was probably unprecedented. _Make that inconceivable._ The scrolls the Ba handed to Giaja, and they went to receive, were much larger than the earlier ones, tied with heavy gold ribbon and surprisingly heavy. Nor was Giaja done, a slight gesture holding all four Barrayarans before him.

“We would also seek Our own harmonies of change and endurance.”

Though audible to all this had been addressed to Kareen alone, but Giaja’s attention then swung out, encompassing all present as a palpable weight—a trick she had never seen before from him but often in Gregor and Miles, making her wonder what else the new imperial Cousins might be learning from one another, and from the other’s high feudatories. She knew Gregor and Giaja talked by frame, but had imagined necessary political exchanges rather than more personal ones; now, knowing enough of the Barrayaran Imperium’s uppermost reaches to know how unimaginable was the burden Gregor bore unstintingly for them all, she suddenly saw what a surpassing, despaired-of gift mutual fellowship might be to the people the emperors were, who in their commanding political fictions could have no native peers. And seeing it, she intuited, wholly and instantaneously if without details, what Miles and Ekaterin had said on Gregor’s and Laisa’s behalf to Giaja and Rian Degtiar, His Handmaiden, and all the high haut and ghem of Their court that this event assembled, in a language of art that was common tongue for emperors because their own lives were each and all of necessity unending performances that made blessed fictions impossibly and overbearingly real. _Falling Free_ proposed independent epic growth in cooperatively won freedom, _Prime Decay_ found stability in diminution, and _The haut Pel’s Grace to the Fallen_ commemorated partnership and imperial force-in-benignity.

 _How_ Miles and Ekaterin— _oh yes! most certainly Ekaterin_ —had managed remotely to programme the Minchenko Ballet in emperor-speak she hadn’t a clue, but they _had_ accepted Miles’s commission. Which would have been more than enough for him to start wondering what _precisely_ he was going to say to the highest of the haut when they attended his premiere. And saying it all in a quaddie accent was like an exquisite grammatical mode, a Cetagandan-style purity of diction combining extreme tact (quaddies never having figured even remotely in any of Barrayar’s and Cetaganda’s century-long hostilities, and Quaddiespace being far too far away to have any strategic bearing on anything) and a blazing mock-irony about the powers of genetics with a multiply object lesson in co-operative endeavour. The last flicker of Kareen’s insight was to realise with renewed shock that Giaja had known _exactly_ what he was going to hear said in that imperial language and exquisite mode, and had responded in kind, which was what the interval conversation had really been about. Had her honest response to Giaja’s question by fortune suggested her own nonexistent understanding of matters so far beyond her? Then with much greater shock she followed the implication of _that_ , that Miles had utterly trusted her to say the perfect thing whether she understood or not; that he trusted who she was, not what she might or might not know, and trusted enough to … but Giaja was speaking and the reverberations in her brain had to pause.

“We have seen tonight great truth in art, and not in art only. Lord Mark Vorkosigan, in recognition of your valour in rescuing children from the planet of joint imperial sovereignty now called Aralyar Ceta, before We were able to do so Ourselves, we are pleased to confer upon you Our Order of Merit.”

Kareen suspected her face must have lit up as brightly as Miles’s, though without (she hoped) the unholy glee dancing in his eyes and certainly without the teasing flick of his fingers towards his identical decoration, which he frequently described as the greatest minor embarrassment of his life. The Ba servitor handed Giaja the heavy medal on its ribbon, and her breath caught at the problem Mark’s height presented but Giaja somehow inclined himself elegantly, without a hint of stooping, to place it round Mark’s neck and shake his hand. But what happened to her face when Giaja then turned to her she could not imagine.

“Lady Kareen Koudelka Vorkosigan, in recognition of your work alongside Lord Mark, and the gifts of your grace to Us, We are pleased to confer upon you Our Order of Virtue.” The medal and ribbon were familiar to Kareen from Ekaterin’s, bestowed by Benin at her graduation in Vorbarr Sultana, but she could hardly believe the weight that settled round her neck, nor that Giaja, taking her hand, raised it to his lips. Behind him Pel and Miles looked as if they might burst out hooting, and Ekaterin seemed to be valiantly subduing a gurgle, thinking perhaps of the strangely matched quartet the Vorkosigan brothers and their wives now made, and what Vorbarr Sultana would have to say now to the Chance Brothers. _Or to their wives._ _Which was a thought. Oh yes, definitely a thought._ But all their eyes were also shining, and with the weight of the medal her confidence flowed back, enabling her to stand with her adopted family and calmly accept the deep bows and curtsies of audience and quaddies, still gathered in mid-sphere and orchestra-pit.

Then it was all over, Giaja swinging to leave with Pel and Benin, themselves following behind with the rest of the party, guards and servitors falling in around. In one of the antechambers a stream of bubble-chairs joined them—Rian and the Planetary Consorts now back behind their personal force-screens—and Pel dropped from Giaja’s side into her own chair, flicking on the screen as soon as she was seated. There was, Kareen knew, a late reception for the quaddie performers, and a private dinner for the imperial party, and she found to her surprise that she was starving. A hand softly touched her arm and she turned to meet Helen Vorthys’s shrewd smile.

“Congratulations, dear. Did you have any idea all this was going to happen?”

“Not in the least, Professora. Though Miles did tell Mark he was going to tell Pel about the children on Escobar, and I was told about that renegade haut by Uncle Aral after the invasion, because of Mark’s … involvement with Baron Ryoval.”

“I understand, dear.” Helen looked as if she also understood that Kareen had done more than euphemise the killing of Ryoval, and was wondering hard about the shape of missing bits, but Gregor’s and the Vorkosigans’ secrets about Jackson’s Whole were not Kareen’s to divulge. “And the gravity suits you, you know.”

“Good.” The thought came back. “By way of a footnote to your report, Professora, let me invite you and Lord Auditor Vorthys to a party Mark and I shall be giving next month; a sort of debriefing for this, when Uncle Aral and Tante Cordelia will be in town.” She leaned slightly sideways, confidentially, and the Professora’s head inclined toward her. “Tell me, Tante Helen, when you were awarded your Silver Imperial Star”—she gestured to the gleaming medal on the older woman’s breast—“how did you set about the public announcement? I think if Miles agrees I shall invite _everyone_ to come and learn about mine, including as special guests those actors everyone likes so much, you know, the Chance Brothers. I shall seat them between Miles and Mark, if only to protect them from Tante Cordelia. What do you think?”

The Professora’s smile was lovely but it was her well-concealed crogglement that really warmed Kareen’s heart. This was, after all, the Celestial _Garden_ , and as Ekaterin often said, where else should amazing things grow?


End file.
